ALEXSONDRA TOMASULO has been writing on her personal and intimate journeys for a few decades. Her scope includes grief, depression, forgiveness, transformation and redemption. She loves poetry, short stories and essays. She is also an accomplished ceramic artist. Alexsondra now, after the loss of her beloved husband, has found a new rhythm in the art of play as it relates to each artistic endeavor. She resides on the coast of Maine.
the bleak burdensome days
now having taken their toll
the body displays the soul
as the mind searches for ways
to exit the prison or ease the pain
of this anguish and torment
the end must be near so dark are the hues
I must face the verdict and pay the dues
I pray that my demons may all fall silent
What is that light that flickers for me
as if ushering in the message of hope
limbs now weakening no longer able to cope
does it possess the power to alter my destiny
I will sit here then pondering my past
turning over pages now tattered and frayed
reading the passages I never obeyed
with one last thought, how long will this last
the gift given, the gift received
has more to do with
what is believed
cupped hands offer, cupped hands accept
in love and respect
this is the point of no return
with bowed heads in silence
and much to learn
moment of peace, moment of grace
temple of divinity
created oneness of space
the gift given, the gift received
has more to do
with what is believed
his hand pressed through flesh to heart
burning wounds explode apart
trust begins in humbled awe
divine spark in the raw
twin flames encircling each other
man nor god will ever smother
existing before time and space
meet again restoring Grace
parted in flesh again for a spell
silent of the death knell
never unwatched nor severed be
continuous love blessed by Thee
The poet sits with morning coffee
thoughts dancing in her head, sometimes
like children jumping off swings
light and carefree
other times like hand grenades
baring truth to thousands
of war torn children
and what comes forth
is an acknowledged collaboration
between mind and spirit
though pithy, comedic or soulful
that poem rises from the depths
of the intestines,
having been churned about
no embellishments necessary
each letter strung in unison
hand painted, transcending the mundane
yet never leaving it out altogether
consider the importance of a chair?
the poem calls to others, or anyone for that matter
in need of healing, comforting, and awakening
while the poet is humbly aware that
she writes for an audience of one
and the only commandment
is to love oneself authentically
the rambling of flowers
I was going to tell you about my love of red Poppies
and how brilliant their beauty, almost too great to absorb
commanding your attention but in the most gentle of ways
perhaps that is why their bloom is so fleeting
but then the Rose spoke to me,
reminding me of the days I struggled to pull her roots from the ground
as I hated the bloody chore of pruning
and how she steadfastly persevered, longing to be a witness of love
up close and personal against the wall of my house.
the sweet lily-of-the-valley made their delicate voices heard
in memory of the first garden I was granted
in the kingdom of my back yard where I reigned as princess,
gardener, and master mud pie maker
I confess to not serving my astilbe
benignly neglected in the shade
now whispering words of forgiveness
and my wonderful hollyhocks
standing so high in pinks and blues
her delightful songs spilling forth
to the less noble
though many consider it a weed,
the dandelion, in it’s tickly yellow,
giggles me wishes made with my mother
long back, before the troubles of the world were heard
so many flowers each with distinct gifts
each so generous in their teaching
having no personal desire,
no will nor ego, they exist to exist
their offering has been paid for
by surrendering to their essence .
In the beginning days
as a sculptor
I searched for symbols
that would unite,
leaving no one outside.
each piece was heavily laden
with markings from every religion
and spiritual practice I could find.
my desire was strong,
believing if only I could create
one piece containing
an imprint for everyone,
they might be able to see the oneness.
But symbols have energy,
pushing people to and from
their comfort zones.
symbols are not static,
they evolve in their meaning
as humans require them to.
I have been spurned
for using the Ankh
at a christian art sale
as if it were some secret sign of evil destruction
I have been looked down upon
for carving the star of David on the crucifix
as if Jesus wasn’t a Jew
and eyes did rise when
having carved an Ouroboros
on a chalice for celebration
as if the renewal of life
was something saved for the select few
Yes, symbols have an energy
they create clubs with specific definitions
they create community
giving us comfort and guidance
but they also divide
infusing us with arrogance and fear
imagine, the impact of one intangible mark.
will it unify or alienate?
both, is the answer.
and simply the awareness of that
Without the wind
the earth would be scorched.
all meaningful travel would cease.
wishes made on dandelions
would be unable to reach their source,
in a hopeless state.
and no more
could we marvel
at the mighty eagle
riding the heavenly currents.
of course gone would be the monsoons
typhoons, tornadoes and blizzards.
and that would be, nice, say some.
consider the thoughts
a lover sends across continents
yes, even mind travel would cease,
without the wind
oh how the wind plays her part,
abundant in her many faces.
no type casting for her.
without the wind
there would be no
languishing on beaches,
her gentleness easing
the dog days of summer.
without the wind,
never would thousands
be left homeless from her rage.
She makes no deals
as nothing in nature does
she wants only that which we all want
to be loved unconditionally.
the rotting egg sulphur sour
mingling with the rose roots
lovers under covers rest
Beginning the day
morning coffee complete
with fluorescent golden turmeric
his earthy fragrance anchors me
to the day
while cinnamon, mingling in the same vessel
infuses her sweetness
that I may dance with the gods
together the lines of tragic memories
Like an accordion
subject to it’s master’s will
taking hold of one point on a star
and laying it on a sandy beach
walking to your destination
yet never reaching it
yearning to connect
two dissolve into one
love filled exhalations
swiftly transported to war zoned babies
decluttering my inner temple
I make room for you
she waited for his glance
knowing that was all it would take.
the room crowded
with tuxedoed dudes
prancing about with taffeta clad fillies
clinging to their arms
had no effect on this one
scruffy ill dressed cowboy
who meandered through
the well groomed glitter
confident of every gift he possessed
She, too, stood in confidence
her voluptuous body
giving way to long ivory fingers
Her well designed legs created
elegant shadows against the polished floor
She was the undeniable queen of the event
and then as if orchestrated by the gods themselves
a ray of sunshine splashed across her face
as the cowboy sauntered forth to greet her
it was love at first sight,
which the haughty know nothing about
yet they danced the night away on gossamer wings
while the queen and the cowboy
remained enmeshed in their gift.
Igniting The Now
It arrived on the anniversary
of my husband’s passing.
I wore it every day
for precisely one month,
each bead had been
intuitively chosen for me,
citrine, amethyst,rose quartz and more.
Yesterday it changed,
though I’m certain
it wasn’t as abrupt as it seemed.
Why hadn’t I noticed
the string was fraying?
How did I miss the beginning breath
of the apple blossom bud,
now threatening to burst forth
in all of it’s sweetness?
Totally unable am I
to recall the exact moment
my own flesh surrendered to old age,
no longer elastic and supple.
Now with expectant eyes
on the coming of the forsythia,
brilliantly offering the
gateway to enlightenment,
so too, will I miss the last grey crust of snow,
forgetting to offer my goodbyes of gratitude.
Is this the nature of change
to move so slowly as to ease the edges
of our perceptions
reminding us that all of nature
is a continuous symphony
never ceasing for one nano second
creating crystal crescendos,
and rose petal pianissimos
while meditating on the present
I sway between expectations
and melancholy memories
the bud blossoms
as each bead slips through my fingers
proclaiming the change
Not Enough Stars In The Sky
If only it would remain
then dirty secrets would
be laid bare, and the child
would be safe
from monsters who
by day were
those she loved
if only it would remain
light in the subways underground
then dirty secrets would
be laid bare, and the child
would be safe
from the gropers and molesters
disregarding her Catholic uniform
But darkness will come either
by nature or man
as she stays awake till
first light, waiting
for safety and her beloved to return.
Someone once said,
“the only thing we have to fear,
is fear itself.”
The girl thought this a haughty
and privileged statement.
Yet now, when the power goes out
she’s enveloped in a
peaceful pitch black,
the light of the moon
nor the hum of electricity and she floats
into the depths
of silence only the angels know.
She still prefers a nightlight to keep
the shadows at bay.
How do I find my way home
the forest has grown thick
with new and unfamiliar layers
Does the name “forest” even remain?
Memories of a soothing light
golden, if that name is correct
perhaps honey like
almost tangible, yet not.
If I could see but a sliver
I would quickly wrap myself
in it’s never ending tendrils
but I fear there are mini disconnects
like the neon neurons of my mind
groping desperately for the name of my first born
or where I laid my glasses last, or first for that matter
What? You say sit down and wait
Who are you?
I am the voice of voices
the soloist and the ensembles
and you are the stars and the moon and the sky
traveling always with the sacred umbilical cord.
Coming To Self
What is a fork in the road,
other than a pinpoint
when one faces self.
Is it opportunity
calling you forward?
Or does the suction of distrust
pull you within a self created prison?
All choices are yours.
There is the fourth choice,
to simply sit,
gathering information with your heart.
Miraculously, there is no wrong choice,
you are in a win/win seat of authority,
custom designed and divinely crafted.
There is but one golden tunnel
whose Light connects all.
Rejoice in your journey.
Who’s Listening Anyway
coursed through her veins
percolating years of torment
she even wore it daily
in her gypsy like clothes
hoping people would
hear her cries
little did she know
her bellows were at a decibel
imperceivable to those around her
she wandered through her years
longing to be heard in the colors of her mind
no easy task in this sea of sedated hues
she might have hired an interpreter
but who would she rely on?
Stepping into trust
was stepping into a quagmire of green slime
oh how she admired those
wearing the neutrals,
perhaps with a touch of white
you know the ones.
they parade into a room
all proper and bland
yet people turn to listen
as they speak without authenticity
not a red drop of their own intimate world
yet people accept them
and why not?
none or their washed out words
give rise to any disturbance or discomfort.
as daffodils remain yellow and rocks flat grey.
are the ones that wait patiently
while you grieve your beloved
they are the ones
whose hope shines more brightly for the starving and the lost
they hold steady their position on high
behind the cold grey winter’s sky
never receiving a drop of gratitude for their loyalty
but then there is the day when you look out
seeing the world drenched in golden possibilities
promises of tomorrows
your chest full and proud.
both bowing your head in forgiveness
and yielding to her invitation,
she whispers her secrets
as you dance amid the daffodils.